She bent forward, chest on her thighs, head between her knees, hands gripping her ankles. Her hair was scant inches from the switch-covered center console separating the pilots’ seats. Seconds ticked by. The anticipatory dread heightened. They barreled toward the earth, wings rocking back and forth, the plane’s nose wandering while Rif fought to keep the bird right-side up. Seconds later, the aircraft hit hard, bounced, then slammed back down to the earth, creating a tsunami of sand.
The fuselage swung sharply to the right as a wingtip sliced into a sand berm. Thea’s body lurched forward, then whiplashed sideways. Pain wrenched her lower back. The Gulfstream shuddered as it torpedoed through the dunes, the windshield buried in reddish-brown sand, darkening the flight deck. They skidded sideways, the piercing screech of grinding metal penetrating her eardrums.
Every joint ached. White spots filled her vision. Her teeth rattled. The plane finally rumbled to a halt. Shell-shocked, she sucked in a deep breath and tried to orient herself.
A gash had appeared on Rif’s forehead. Blood dripped into his eyes as he stopcocked both engines and ripped off his seat belt. “You okay?” he yelled above the moan of dying turbines.
She nodded. Her body was battered, but she didn’t have any serious injuries. The alarming scent of jet fuel mixed with acrid smoke kicked her into action. “Out!”
Their quickest escape route was through the front, but they needed to help Peter and the flight attendants. Thick smoke filled the cabin. She pulled off her sweater and used it as a filter to help her breathe. She rushed toward the main cabin, Rif right behind her. Debris cluttered the floor. Coffee mugs, smashed glass, and a laptop computer rested near the first flight attendant’s seat.
She stumbled over a duffel bag lying on the floor but caught her balance by slamming a palm into an overhead panel. The smoke limited visibility. Rif tried to open the exit door, but it wouldn’t budge. The fuselage had twisted during the landing.
“This way,” Rif told Brianna and Peter, moving on to the red release handle on the overwing emergency escape hatch. He tossed the hatch through the waist-high opening, then helped the others step onto the sharply tilted wing.
Thea hurried through the cabin to find the second flight attendant. The woman’s neck was bent at such an unnatural angle, she didn’t need to check for a pulse. She stumbled back to the hatch, bending almost double to thread her body through the emergency exit. Rif offered her a hand, then led her off the wing’s trailing edge.
They leapt to the ground and sprinted upwind from the crash. Seconds later, an oxygen bottle exploded, igniting fuel leaking from the breached wing tanks. A ball of orange flame laced with angry black smoke erupted, throwing a wall of heat and bits of burning aluminum in their direction.
Thea dove into the sand beside Rif, arms covering her head. A series of smaller explosions scattered debris and scorched the sand around the fuselage, ringing the jet’s gaping wreckage with ugly black soot.
Thea pushed herself into a sitting position. Her lips were dry and swollen, her eyes irritated and burning. Tears streaked down her face. The broken jet was engulfed in a raging inferno, melting into the sand, forever grounded, a hollowed-out carcass. The bodies of the pilots and the other flight attendant had been cremated, their ashes lost in the unforgiving winds of the Kanzi desert.
Rif offered her a hand up. She accepted, grateful. Without his piloting skills, they’d all be dead.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nikos’s view of the arid dunes surrounding the airstrip was clouded by red earth kicking up as the Cessna Caravan touched down. The plane lumbered to a stop, and the grit hovering in the air dissipated. A Kanzi flag on a lone pole waved in the brisk wind—half red, half black, with a green circle in the middle, representing “through the mud and the blood to the green fields beyond.” No green fields today, though: soaring temperatures and dry conditions had left any local crops desiccated. The surrounding area was a barren wasteland.
The Cessna had landed in the western region of Kanzi, where the harsh climate made the land inhospitable, though it provided the perfect location for a rebel training camp. Shots could be fired and grenades could explode without causing any alarm. The only people who roamed the surrounding desert were the nomadic tribes, and they knew better than to venture near this encampment.
“Welcome home.” The flight steward opened the exit door while the co-pilot ran around the spinning propeller to unload Nikos’s luggage. Four soldiers in fatigues stood armed with the newly supplied AK-47s beside a pair of Toyota Land Cruisers.
As difficult as the conditions were here, Nikos considered this country his home. He might have been born in New York City, but Ares had come into being in Kanzi. For years he’d kept his two identities separate, never merging. But now he was taking the ultimate risk, revealing himself. He planned on tricking one devil to exact revenge on another, fulfilling his destiny, bringing his story full circle after twenty long years.